


space to star to stone

by frith_in_thorns



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Abstract, Angels don't care about you, Gen, Some things are real, The sun has a tick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/pseuds/frith_in_thorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels listen to the ticking of the sun, and when they speak they lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	space to star to stone

Tick.

The blinking light does not blink, and the mountain does not exist. Angels have no pronouns. They are more solid than mountains. More permanent.

The land remembers. The sky is more merciful, and forgets.

Tick.

The mystery here is worth preserving. Worth swathing the vale in unseen mists and unfelt auras. Houses are less real than mountains, and some are even less real than that. But angels need no homes. They don't need to care.

Tick.

Angels are never still. They are rushing through the void at speeds which would rip and shred a body without the protective shields of atmospheres and they are spinning with the potential energy that collects at the brink of cataclysmic explosions. The screams of heavenly bodies in motion make a choir.

Tick.

The night is the only thing that is real. Day is an optical illusion — light scattered over gas particles. Humanity is a hallucination — a shared atomic dream in blood and bone that could alternately be arranged into a lake or a star or a forest fire.

Tick.

A subway system crisscrosses downward, sidestepping the crust and mantel and core for a heat more metaphysical, wrapped in shadows. Bluffs shine bright under an unforgiving sun. The passage of angels leaves smears like chalkdust in the air, smudging a house with off-cast light.

Tick.

Angels are an infection. They are chaos and the sound of space-void-time-dark. The ticking of the sun. They cast shadows of obelisks never built. The sun can burn them out, and so can order, and logic, but they return in the dark of a dream when lights are in the sky. Always some forbidden thought pulls them back.

Tick.

They want nothing, because want and need are more meaningless than mountains when concepts of near distance span galaxies. They exist, and are. They touch. Play at solidity in the blink of a nebula's pulse-beat. Rip and tear and bend the laws of the universe.

Tick.

Infection spreads. Time's too slow to contain it. 

Tick.

Angels speak only lies, and they do not exist.


End file.
